


A souvenir from Hell

by TheFierceBeast



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Clothing Kink, Crobby - Freeform, Devil's Trap, Devil's Trap Sex, Established Relationship, Face-Sitting, Fighting for Dominance, First Time Bottoming, Frenemies, I sincerely apologise to these actors for using their likenesses in this way, Knifeplay, Love/Hate, M/M, Sexual Tension, Teasing, Verbal Sparring, cutting off clothes, hot bear on bear action, imaginative use of devil's traps, ludicrous pwp, vulnerability kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-16
Updated: 2016-11-16
Packaged: 2018-08-31 09:25:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8572996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFierceBeast/pseuds/TheFierceBeast
Summary: Crowley has a really innovative use for a stick of seaside rock and a devil's trap.This is just filth tbh. Enjoy?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WareWolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WareWolf/gifts).



Bobby knows Crowley’s there, even before he turns around, holding the item in question aloft. “What in Hell’s name’s this?”

Crowley pushes off the bedroom wall where he’s been leaning and saunters over to where Bobby’s inspecting what he’s just picked up off his nightstand. “What? I can’t bring you candy, lover?”

Bobby shoots him a glare. “Candy? _Devil_ candy?”

“Oh. I forgot.” Crowley rolls his eyes. “You aren’t familiar with grand cultural institutions like this, here in the good ol’ U.S. of ‘you call that chocolate?’ It’s all _saltwater taffy_ for you poor sods.” Bobby narrows his eyes at Crowley’s annoyingly passable imitation of an American accent, but before he can retort, Crowley continues, “That, darling, is a stick of honest, old-fashioned, British seaside rock. A Souvenir from Hell, if you will.”

“The day you give me anything honest I’ll eat my hat.”  Crowley’s smile looks so innocent. Bobby can’t decide whether he wants to smack him or kiss him, so he turns his attention to the cellophane-wrapped stick in his hands. It’s long, and hard, and thick, and pink - he clears his throat quietly, too aware of Crowley’s eyes on him – and at the white centre of it is a perfectly rendered Devil’s Trap, picked out in red sugar. “What is this? – don’t say ‘rock’ – What you tryin’ to pull here?”

“You, if I’m lucky.” That smile is still in place. Crowley steps in a little too close and takes the stick from Bobby’s hands, gingerly between finger and thumb as if it might burn him – which, Bobby concedes, it well might. “It goes all the way through. Clever how they make it, isn’t it?”

“Sure. Regular confectionary _magic_.” Bobby snorts. “What’s it for, genius?”

“You’ve been a hunter, what, fifty years?” Crowley ignores Bobby’s noise of protest. “And you want me to explain what a Devil’s Trap’s for? Shoddy, mate.” He contemplates the stick in his hand as he sits all too comfortably on the edge of Bobby’s bed. Bobby opens his mouth to object again, but Crowley holds up a finger. “Tell you what. I’ll show you just what it’s for, and you can thank me later. And believe me…” He tilts his head, his smile wicked. “You _will_ be thanking me.”

There’s a warded blade over there under Bobby’s pillow, but right now, a shotgun full of salt behind the door is seeming like a good future investment. “The only thing I’ll thank you to do is to haul your limey ass off of my property right this goddamn min-”

“Ah, ah.” Crowley raises a finger again, and something about the set of his expression brings Bobby up short, his mouth snapping shut. Giving a satisfied little nod, Crowley starts to unwrap the stick of candy in his hands with a crackle of cellophane. The movements of his thick fingers peeling back the wrapper shouldn’t be quite so mesmerising, but… Bobby folds his arms, watching as Crowley snaps an inch or so of hard candy off the end and wrinkles his nose, contemplating it. “Good job I have no gag reflex.” Bobby shakes his head, exasperated, as Crowley peeks up at him from beneath his eyelashes, checking his reaction. “Well. To your health.” The face he pulls when he pops the piece of rock into his mouth is a picture. He cocks his head, screwing one eye shut with the obvious effort of swallowing. Waves a hand – _wait for it, wait for it_ – then nods in evident relief as his muscles visibly relax, throat working, and he slumps back onto the bed.

Bobby sighs. “And that just accomplished, what, exactly?”

“Devil’s trap candy. Takes a while to digest. Renders your demon essentially helpless in the meantime.”

“Well, ain’t that just peachy?” There’s a lot of things warring inside Bobby right now. Mainly, confusion. Mistrust. More than a smidge of wary arousal at seeing Crowley sprawled temporarily powerless on his bed. “So, what I effectively got now is a fun new anti-hellspawn toy of very limited use, and a cast-iron opportunity to off you right where you lay. Nice work, Einstein.”

He takes a step towards the bed. Crowley’s eyes track his progress, catching amber-coloured in the afternoon light filtering through the dusty blinds. He doesn’t look threatened. Not even a little worried. Like he knows that Bobby could never bring himself to harm the King of Hell, not now: still, the asshole could at least have the decency to look a little wary. Bobby crouches in front of the bed, bringing his face almost level with the demon’s and Crowley licks his lips, slowly. “What you effectively have now – and time is ticking, love – is about fifteen minutes, give or take, in which to _thoroughly_ take advantage of me.” His smile is devastatingly charming. “Don’t dally, now, lover-boy. Tick, tick, tick.”

The words are visceral as a slap. It feels like every drop of blood in Bobby’s body immediately rushes to his dick, except it can’t have done, ‘cause his face is burning. His voice when he speaks sounds far more scandalised than he means it to, and sure enough, Crowley is practically chuckling at him. “You dirty little bastard. I should pick you up and plant you right in a trap you ain’t gonna break. Leave you there to stew. For a couple o’ _years_.”

“Mmm.” Those golden eyes are heavy-lidded, with more than the effects of the trap. Crowley catches his lower lip between his perfect white teeth and Bobby _really_ wants to slap him until he’s gasping now. “I’m not about to discourage a little manhandling. You _should_ get a move on, though. Have your way as fast as you can. Russian roulette, tiger: who knows when your time’s going to run out and I’ll _flip_ the tables?”

Bobby’s belly lurches at the emphasis he puts on ‘flip’. It’s downright outrageous how the guy can still be so controlling even when he’s just voluntarily roofied himself. Out of eye-line, he discreetly presses the heel of one hand against his crotch. Forces his voice to a growl. “How’s about I tie you up with some warded rope and take my own sweet time with you? What do you reckon to that idea, big-shot?”

Crowley’s answering tone is the kind of deep, rich rumble that should not affect Bobby like it does. “I find it both enterprising and thrilling. Constrictor knot’s harder to get out of. Just saying.” He tilts his chin up, pink tongue darting across his bottom lip, tempting as sin. “I hope you tie ‘em nice and tight.”

“How’s about I take the rest of your Hell candy and shove it where it ain’t gonna melt down?”

That shuddery exhale, like Bobby’s just promised him the moon on a stick, is the final straw. “Oh, _Robert_.”

It was never a thing before now. Sure, Bobby’s always been kinda attracted to men, but in more of an idle, academic way that never made it past the odd appreciative glance and late-night fantasy. Not even particularly on-purpose – although he has to admit, being straight probably sure made life easier – it was just that the ladies in his life and, well, the life, always kept him more than busy enough. _Before now_. The moment he kissed Crowley, he knew he was done for. Heck, Crowley ain’t even his type, even for a guy – he likes ‘em taller, rougher, down-to-earth and capable and… ah, who’s he kidding? It was the voice that got to him first. That damn dirty purr that could persuade a saint to fornicate, in that hoity-toity accent of his… Bobby’d known he had to kiss him to seal their deal. He hadn’t expected to enjoy it. To melt into it like it was the last pleasure he’d ever enjoy on earth. For all he’d known, it could have been. But what a pleasure it was: Crowley’s hands fisted in the front of his shirt, holding him close with iron strength that belied his dapper appearance, had got Bobby’s motor racing fit to blow. Sure, it was kinda his job and all but Crowley was a _great_ kisser. And oh, but he just kept coming back for more.

“Ah, _crap_.”

Crowley _growls_ , deep in his chest, when Bobby caves in and lunges, taking his mouth. After all this time he still tastes as good, whisky-sharp and - sugar-sweet: that’s new - Bobby makes a low noise, sucking on that velvety-pink tongue and Crowley answers with a whine that might be just a little frustrated. Thing is, Bobby could happily do this for hours. Wishes now that he _had_ hours with the maddening son-of-a-bitch incapacitated like this, to do some tormenting of his own, just kissing him, soft and lingering and unhurried. But he’s got, what, twelve minutes and counting? And Crowley likes it fast and rough and often, and the main thing that Bobby will never admit to is, what he mostly likes is to please Crowley.

“If I’d known you just wanted to make out like high-school sweethearts I wouldn’t have wasted the ammunition,” Crowley says as Bobby pulls back, but his eyes are tell-tale wide and his voice has got that throaty quality that Bobby knows means he’s interested. Bobby inclines his head.

“Hey, you’re the one who whammied yourself, knucklehead. Now you play by my rules.” His hand lingers, fingers stroking through the neatly trimmed fuzz of the creature’s beard. He grasps him by the chin, turns his head. Fascinated. Crowley, helpless, scowls.

“Bloody do something!”

“Mind your mouth.” The slap he plants on one furred cheek is gentle, more amused than warning, but Crowley hisses in a breath and his eyes flash with lust. It’s too tempting to resist. _Ten minutes, maybe?_ Bobby gives in to him, climbing onto the bed, straddling the paralysed body beneath him and heaven have mercy it’s all kinds of wrong but it’s also hot – mainly to witness just how much the King of Hell is getting off on this. “Don’t make me have to shut you up.” He slides a thumb across Crowley’s lower lip: it’s instantly sucked into wet heat, before he feels a pinch of almost-pain as Crowley bites. Bobby knows he’s angling for another slap, doesn’t give him the satisfaction: his thumb leaves a wet smear of spit as he pulls out, wraps a hand around the demon’s throat, and Crowley groans, pleased, as Bobby’s grip tightens: bastard always gets what he wants. Bobby’s dick throbs, obediently. His hands move lower, fumbling buttons as he claims Crowley’s lips again, as Crowley groans, helpless, against his mouth, unable to respond, move, push up against him… Bobby grinds down against answering hardness and Crowley rewards him with a broken moan that he’ll be reliving in his dreams for weeks.

“Faster!”

“Can it, bossy. You got too many buttons.”

His fingers can’t help but stumble when Crowley is panting against his mouth, tongue wet and desperate, and he gasps, “Just rip it,” and Bobby nearly blows his load right then and there.

“You’re jokin’, right? I value my hide. You ain’t gonna be out of action forever.”

“Do I ever say anything I don’t mean?”

“All the time.”

“When it concerns my attire?” Bobby raises his brows, conceding. Leans back to fist two handfuls of crisp black cotton twill, and _pulls_. It’s not easy to rip something this well-made, but he really puts his back into it and sure enough, a couple of buttons pop with a satisfying give and the noise Crowley makes goes straight to his cock.

“Yeah? You like that?” The way his eyes spark when Bobby jams a hand in his jeans pocket and comes up with his switchblade, is nothing short of beautiful. He feels the interested jerk of Crowley’s dick through his pants. “You’re usually so precious about your fancy gear.” He trails the sharp point of the knife up and down the precise seam of Crowley’s pants, watches his breath quicken, his pulse thump in his throat. Slides the flat of blade under the button placket of his shirt and slices the remainder through slow, pop-pop-pop.

Crowley’s voice is rough when he answers. “You think I can’t conjure up as many replacements as I please?”

“Not right now you can’t.”

“Quite correct, of course… Mmmm…” He trails off to a pleased hum, as Bobby slips the little blade, sudden and precise, through one side-seam of those elegant suit pants, glides it easy as butter: the fabric splits beautifully. Crowley exhales like a sigh. It’s satisfying, but Bobby suspects, not quite as harsh as he wants it. The waistband is tougher, requires a sharp yank upwards and Crowley grunts, pleased, as Bobby tugs the shredded fabric brusquely apart. “Clock’s ticking, darling.”

“Shut up.” The knife goes in easy, stroke after stroke, ripping whatever fool-expensive brand of perfectly fitted black boxer briefs he’s wearing to ribbons. Bobby guesses by the delighted little cry he gets that he’s caught flesh, feels it sure enough beneath his fingertips; the wet warmth of blood seeping. He goes down to get his mouth on him, all smooth and hot, to get that obscene heat on his lips. It’s just a little nick: Bobby bathes it with his tongue, tasting the essence of him, rich and corrupt and somehow so right.

“ _Bobby_ …” The gasping hitch in his voice has Bobby smiling against the smooth skin of one hip. Sucking harder against that little nick until it blooms pink against Crowley’s pallor. He turns his head, nuzzling. Kisses a trail right up the thick shaft of Crowley’s dick until he’s lapping, leisurely and teasing, at the head and Crowley’s breath is coming more ragged than his suit. “Just… damn it, Robert…”

“Problem, your majesty?” He gives just the tip a good, sound lollipop suck and Crowley makes an indescribable noise of frustration. Bobby can’t hold back his grin.

“Problem… for you…” His mouth’s still making the demon moan, even while Crowley’s trying to sound pissy. “You’re wasting a very… singular… opportunity.”

“Am I?” His fingertips follow the line of Crowley’s trouser inseam until the fabric falls apart, giving way to creamy skin. When they stroke up the soft cleft of his ass, Crowley hisses – it sounds like ‘yesss’. Encouraged, Bobby spreads him with finger and thumb, drinks in the low moan that provokes. His other thumb presses, firm, against that tight hot pucker, rubbing little circles until Crowley starts to relax, starts to take him in even though he’s dry. He pushes harder, gentle but unrelenting, in to the first knuckle and Crowley is panting now, cock twitching and dripping, unable to bear down or pull away but he’s certainly not objecting to his current treatment. Still… Bobby smiles again at the little noise of chagrin when he pulls out, to go and rummage around in the chest of drawers across the room. He throws a sachet of lube on the bed and watches Crowley’s eyes track his every movement as he shucks his jeans and boxers and resumes his former position with exaggerated nonchalance. And Crowley takes two slicked fingers right away, with a delighted little ‘mmm’. His eyes really are something else. Bobby can hardly decide where he’d rather be looking – at his fingers pumping slowly in and out of that sweet ass, or at the devious pleased smile playing across Crowley’s lips.

As he watches, Crowley pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, just briefly. He tilts his head. “Is all that for me, darling?”

“Every inch, seen’s you asked so nicely.”

“I’m such a lucky girl.” Crowley’s eyes downright _sparkle_ with laughter. “There’s just one thing…”

“ _Shit_ …” The breath’s knocked from him as Bobby finds himself suddenly on his back on the bed, their positions switched. More out of habit than anything, Bobby jack-knifes beneath him, but he can’t shift him, even though it’s clear Crowley’s not even using magic: stocky little asshole is _strong_ , and oh if that doesn’t just get Bobby even harder.

“Robert, Robert.” Bobby glares bullets as Crowley leans in, even as the tone of his voice sends a shiver of pleasure right through him. “This is what you get for dallying.”

“You said fifteen minutes!” He sounds so affronted. Crowley pulls a musing face.

“My bad. Turns out it’s more like five.”

“Wait – _five_?”

Crowley shrugs, innocently. “What? Don’t blame me: I’m the King of Hell, not a chemist.”

“You just been playing possum on me this whole time?”

Damn him, he smells so good. Crowley’s lips brush Bobby’s ear and he shivers again, relaxing in the demon’s grasp. “Not the _whole_ time,” Crowley murmurs. Punctuates it with a kiss to his jaw, a kiss to his lips, and then Bobby’s kissing him back again, all hot and heavy, until they break for air and he grates out,

“Crowley…”

“What, love? Just say the word and I’ll stop. I’ll zap away and you can pretend none of this ever happened. All you need do is ask.”

“Damnit Crowley…” Bobby groans, arching his back to press his hips up against the demon’s ass. And Crowley doesn’t leave go of his wrists, just lifts one leg to slide it between Bobby’s. Follows with the other, and screw dignity, Bobby’s too far gone, grinding as best he can against Crowley’s thigh like a horny mutt.

“What was that?” Crowley leans in close again and Bobby can feel the heat of him, is drowning in that scent of smoke and incense and good tobacco. “‘Crowley, please do me the favour of shagging me insensate without me having to actually ask for it, because my surly macho self has endured too many years of repressed backwoods conditioning to be able to beg for the damn good rogering I so dearly wish you to administer to me?’”

 _Shit_. The words send a spike of lust right through him, like a solid thing. Bobby recommences struggling, with a noise of outrage that’s one-hundred-percent due to the fact Crowley has him figured dead-on. Crowley shakes his head. Tuts, patiently. And oh, but he looks good: the king kneeling above him, pinning his wrists with those strong hands. He’s still in his suit jacket, ruined shirt hanging open, trousers cut up in a way that’s hiding nothing. “What was that?” He repeats, all gravelly-sweet. Bobby swallows, thickly. His voice is very small.

“ _Yes_.”

“You need to speak up, cupcake, I’m nearly 400 years old.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, Bobby hisses, “Damn you… _Yes_!” Opens his eyes again because he’s instantly missing the view. Crowley chuckles: infuriating, gorgeous jackass.

“You’re so yummy when you’re desperate. All mine.”

“I ain’t…” Bobby gasps as the King of Hell chooses a pertinent moment to grind against him. “Yours…” he wets his lips, “Not any more…”

The way Crowley looks at him: it looks like he wants to _devour_ him. When he lets go of one wrist, slides his palm down Bobby’s heaving chest, Bobby’s hand goes immediately to the back of Crowley’s neck – not to push him away, but to draw him closer. Crowley’s palm lingers, rubs promising circles on Bobby’s belly. Lower. “Don’t forget, there’s still a little bit of you contracted to me.” Bobby moans as that hand closes around his cock, starts to stroke, slowly. Crowley makes a pleased smug noise. “Well. Not so little. But a bit – the best bit- with my name written all over it.”

“You’re a pain in my ass, you know that?”

“I can be a pleasure in your ass if you play your cards right.”

That stab of desire again: Bobby shuts his eyes against it. "Why do you gotta... _word_ things like that?"  
  
"There's no shame in wanting it.” His voice has a goddamn _colour_ ; Bobby can picture Crowley’s eyes, even with his own closed. The _heat_ of them. “I want it every time you have me... oh, _how_ I want it, every time you hold me down and take me." Crowley trails a finger, soft, down the crack of his ass. Slips it between, circling against the tight clench of Bobby's asshole and Bobby can't hold in a moan. It feels good to be touched there. And he ain't ashamed, but he sure is pissed at Crowley being proved right about anything.

“If you’re gonna do it, just…” Bobby trails off, breathless. There’s a hunger inside him he’s not sure he wants to admit to. He glances down, down the length of Crowley’s body, still poised above him, possessive.  
Crowley’s dick looks obscene. Bobby cranes his neck to watch him rub it in a long slow slide against Bobby's own erection and he can’t hold in his helpless moan of desire. Every time his dick throbs he can feel himself leaking, getting wetter at the tip.

Crowley leans down. Grazes teeth the length of his jugular, the expensive scent of him dizzying. One hand lines his dick up, pressing in slick teasing circles against Bobby's hole. "Do you want me?"

"Damn it... Crowley..." He can't control his breathing. A part of him expects Crowley to shift, to sit on him, turn the tables again because man, does Crowley love riding his cock. A bigger part of him wants it: his first time. He thought he’d be anxious but all he can feel is that hungry ache, eager and greedy, fuck, he's practically yawning for it.

"If you don't ask, you don't get." Crowley's hand disappears back between his own thighs – slick wet thrust, his mouth hanging open, putting on a show for the man lying beneath him -  and the fingers that press, then, at Bobby's entrance, slipping easily inside, are lubed slippery... Bobby grits his teeth. Wills his breathing steady, wills himself not to come just from that.

"Please..."

"Tell me what you want." His voice, damn it, it's every dirty glorious dream come true.

"Just...” He’s panting now, spreading his thighs wider, dignity go hang. “Do it, I want you inside me."

The fingers between his legs twist, pump: exquisite slide. "How do you want it, darling?"

"Fast. No mercy. _Fuuuuckkkk_... _Break me in_."

Crowley doesn't answer in words. Just leans in, all fluid grace, and captures Bobby's mouth with a blissed-out groan. His cock ruts, big and promising, between Bobby's thighs: he always knew the little fucker was hung, but it's different being on the receiving end. _Exciting_. Bobby moans and lifts his hips, hands tightening on Crowley's shoulders, the fat slide of that cock between his asscheeks driving him darn near wild. And then he's gasping against Crowley's neck as the rub's replaced with a dull pressure, insistent and unrelenting, opening him wider, wider until all he is's a bundle of raw nerve endings yielding to this beautiful strange invasion, nothing but alien sensation and thrumming pleasure. "Harder." He tries to pull Crowley closer, deeper. And Crowley's eyes are closed, his brows drawn and mouth open, the sweet bow of his lips trembling with effort as he pushes in so careful. 

His voice is full of some weird emotion. "You'll take what you're given."

"Then _gimme_."

"Let me..." Crowley's eyes crinkle where he squeezes them tighter shut, then they bat open again and he's so close, looking Bobby dead on, keeping unflinching eye contact as his hips begin to move. Thrusting, firm and gentle. Bobby groans. It's too good. Every greedy untouched place of him being stroked inside. Overwhelming. His skin is buzzing. He clutches at Crowley's shoulders, his back, nails digging into the fabric of his jacket. His mouth feels dry. Fuzzy and tingly. Each sensation amplified, multiplied, so goddamn good he could howl. Above him Crowley is panting softly, but it ain't with exertion. "Are you doing... OK there... pet?"

" _Don't stop_." Bobby breathes him in, desperate for it. This feeling. His hands lower, slide beneath Crowley's open shirt, needing skin. Feeling the twitch of muscle beneath his palms, the shiver at contact intensifying. Crowley exhales a juddering sigh. His thrusts pick up pace, just a little, deepen, just a little, and Bobby hears himself moan, an involuntary noise of desire, as he lifts his legs higher, angling for more. "C'mon... I know you wanna pound me."

Crowley's hips stutter, but his voice is smooth. "Such the romantic, Robert."

"I'll send you flowers later, princess. Right now I wanna feel you for a week."

"We can work up to that." That sweet hot mouth ghosts over his throat; Bobby tips his head back, letting him. Crowley's big hands are soft on his hips. Almost like he's being careful, almost as if he cares.

Bobby growls. "Carpe diem, jackass. What did you just tell me about hesitating?"

"Fair point well made," Crowley all but gasps out. He leans back, hands moving to grip the backs of Bobby's thighs, hard. Bobby's mouth waters. When Crowley starts to move, fast, he all but sobs. Knows now what all that 'seeing stars' business is about. Crowley’s quick and shallow to start, working him open, _more, harder_ , until his hips are smacking against Bobby's ass with every delirious slam and Bobby's head is lolling against the pillows and he's too ruined with it to even form sentences, just a stream of soft incoherent grunts and moans.

When Crowley moves a hand to Bobby's straining cock, Bobby stumbles over the words, "No, don't, I'll -" He snatches for breath, "Don't wanna finish yet."

"I don't think I can hold off much longer." Crowley's hand moves to Bobby's hip again. His voice is some mixture of reverent and covetous.

"Then don't. Give it to me."

The hands on his hips tighten. Crowley's throat bobs as he swallows. "Can I..?"

"Yeah. Want you to. Inside."

" _Yes_..." Bobby could swear his eyes flash. Bobby's whole world is their point of joining; they can never be apart again. The feeling consumes, filling him, over and over and over again, stealing his breath and curling his toes and filling every furthest point of him with shivery ecstasy and then Crowley is shaking and gasping "Yes, _yes, fff-yessss_ ," as he shudders and slows and trembles, his cheeks flushed and eyes bright. He doesn't wait. Not even a moment. "What's your pleasure, love?"

"Want you to plant that sweet ass on my face while you finish me off." The King of Hell doesn't answer – it seems like he doesn't even move; one moment he's buried between Bobby's thighs, then in a heartbeat Bobby's all but suffocating between Crowley's, quick as a click of those well-manicured fingers. Bobby groans. Overwhelmed with sensation again, overstimulated, immediately on the edge. Crowley wriggles into position, hot and still-slick against Bobby's searching tongue. His fingers thrust slow and easy where Bobby's all fucked loose. His mouth is sinful magic, snug around Bobby's dick as he goes down on him. The moans that pull from Bobby's chest are muffled as he buries his face there where Crowley's all soft and wet, breathes in the dizzy-warm scent of him, fingers tight against the curve of his thighs. He's everything. Surrounding Bobby like fragrant smoke, covering and lapping and owning, his smart mouth taking him in, all the way in, and oh god it's building in him, stoppered too long and ready to burst and he teeters on the brink of it - too much, never enough - and then he's shooting with an inarticulate yell of relief into the most accommodating, eager, talented mouth he's ever had the pleasure of becoming acquainted with.  
He gives Crowley a nice long farewell lick as he dismounts; admires the way his back arches at that. Wiping a hand over his face, Bobby catches his breath. When Crowley turns full circle on the bed like a big ol' tomcat getting comfy, he looks so smug that Bobby can't help but smile. He feels boneless relaxed, wrung out in the best way, a glowing sated ache through every muscle, too lazy to move. Like a deep tissue massage for the soul, filling an emptiness that ain't just physical: Bobby's chest shakes as he starts to quietly laugh. "That was..."

Crowley's handsome face is wearing an odd expression. Kinda somewhere between curious and awestruck and Bobby might feel proud if it wasn't making him so nervous. He lets out another dumbstruck chuckle and Crowley says, "Unexpected."

"Unexpected?"

"Special." Crowley chews on his bottom lip, thoughtful, and Bobby resists the urge to lean in and kiss him again.

"Yeah? That tick your boxes, you old pervert?"

"Less of the 'old', sweetheart." His smile is nothing short of delighted. "I'm a veritable toddler next to Cassie."

"Yeah, neither of them images are welcome given what we just did." Bobby eyes him, warily. A little afraid of the happy feeling welling in his chest, like blood from a mortal wound. Crowley chuckles. He wriggles round, shrugging off his tattered shirt and jacket together, settling warm and solid against Bobby's side. Bobby raises an eyebrow.

"What?" Crowley gazes up at him. He looks amused. "You're not going to kick me out now, are you?"

"If I tried to, would you leave?"

"Nope."

Bobby smiles, pulling him closer. "Thought not," he says. “Although…”

“What?” When Crowley turns to look up at him this time, the movement is sharper. Bobby’s smile softens.

“Don’t suppose you wanna share the rest of your candy?”

“That depends. How do you feel about me lying in your arms for quite a while?”

Bobby’s hand on his shoulder squeezes, gently. “I think I can handle that,” he says.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time solo writing Crowley/Bobby. I’ve shipped it for the loooongest time, but have been too intimidated at the prospect of writing Bobby in any way decently that I’ve not written any up til now. I hope I’ve done him even partway justice (I’m not American, so please let me know if I’ve got any dialogue hideously wrong).
> 
> Thanks to a certain friend of mine for the candy idea (you know who you are <3)
> 
> Apologies that this is dedicated to WareWolf, the master of Crobby fic, who can actually manage absorbing plot and characterisation – I’ll be over here in the one-shot filth bin. Anyway, just a gesture to say thankyou for all the awesome fic.
> 
> PS just in case https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rock_(confectionery) - more than you ever wanted to know about rock.


End file.
